


on pet names and endearments

by kototyph



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dining at the Ritz (Good Omens), Ficlet, M/M, Pet Names, Post-Canon, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-11 17:21:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19931713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kototyph/pseuds/kototyph
Summary: “It looks positively heavenly, thank you,” he tells the maitre d’hotel, who smiles with the peaceable indulgence of a man watching two people amass a bill normally reserved for wedding parties. Royal ones.“Looks like an eviscerated jam sandwich,” Crowley says, prodding one of the foam mounds with his fork. “And far from heavenly, trust me on this one.”





	on pet names and endearments

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted on [tumblr](https://kototyph.tumblr.com/post/186480886488/on-pet-names-and-endearments) (as are most things, amiright)

The Ritz has a devastatingly attractive dessert cart, all manner of cakes and mousses and seasonal fruit trifles cunningly arranged in delicate towers of sugared delights— and that was without considering the many fine cheeses and spreads and port pairings available for those with expanded post-supper palates. Drawn from six thousand years of experimentation, Aziraphale’s palate was perhaps the most expansive in all Creation; after a long time dithering over choices, choices, choices, Crowley had leaned over his shoulder to point at the most sinfully rich-looking chocolate torte and said, “Right, then— we’ll start here and work our way ‘round.”

This newest course, the fourth or fifth, is a dense, creamy cheesecake with a Chambord reduction drizzled over it and frothy heaps of blueberry foam, crowned with tiny marigold flowers and honey pavlova cracked into artful, crumbling pieces. 

“It looks positively heavenly, thank you,” he tells the maitre d’hotel, who smiles with the peaceable indulgence of a man watching two people amass a bill normally reserved for wedding parties. Royal ones.

“Looks like an eviscerated jam sandwich,” Crowley says, prodding one of the foam mounds with his fork. “And far from heavenly, trust me on this one.” 

Aziraphale doesn’t think there’s a single thing Crowley could say in this moment that would annoy him. “Pish tosh, dear. Let’s have a bite, shall we?”

The marigolds are ever so nice in contrast to the heavy cheesecake— a bit bitter, but with a lovely peppery brightness. He remembers them and their long thin seeds fondly from the ambassador’s garden he is thankfully no longer in charge of de-slugging; manual labour very much did not suit him, and he did so hate to shoo off the deer and rabbits that took more enjoyment from those grounds than the humans who owned them ever did.

“A bit thick, it’s it?” Crowley says, his long tongue snaking around the fork tines. The pastry chef, who had come to the table to make the crepes Suzette (dessert two) and stayed to debate the various strengths of Italian versus Swiss meringue for topping lemon curd (dessert three), looks crestfallen. 

“He’s joking,” Aziraphale assures the woman. “It’s delightful, really.”

“And what am I meant to do with crumbly bits?”

“ _Eat_ them, my dear,” Aziraphale says, “though you might need a spoon.”

Crowley promptly steals the tiny spoon from Aziraphale’s cappuccino. The maitre d’hotel produces a scandalized cough and an actual dessert spoon from an apron pocket, which the demon ignores in favor of sucking Aziraphale’s clean.

“What’s the most expensive thing we haven’t tried?” he asks, silver handle still protruding from the corner of his mouth.

“Expensive is not always better,” Aziraphale says primly. 

Crowley rolls his eyes. “Alright, the _best_ thing we haven’t tried.”

“We’re celebrating something special,” Aziraphale explains to the maitre d’. “Very special.”

Crowley snorts, but he’s smirking, and his broomstick limbs have arranged themselves in a contented slump against the chair’s lush upholstery. His sunglasses are starting to slide down the bridge of his nose as he peruses the menu. It’s the most relaxed Aziraphale has seen him in, oh, eons.

“Ah, something _special_ ,” the maitre d’ says with a knowing gleam in his eye. “Might I suggest—”

An ocean of singular champagnes floats them through the rest of the dessert menu and eventually out the door, long after the tables have emptied around them and the pastry chef has spontaneously invented a dacquoise in their honor. They are let loose in London— beautiful London! Beautiful sky caught at just the moment it bruises to purple above the trees in Hyde Park, beautiful statues and narrowing streets with cobbles half-exposed under the asphalt, the modern world worn away to reveal old, old bones. Aziraphale feels new again in the winking twilight, Crowley glimmering in and out of the shadows between streetlights beside him. It’s always suited him best, the drawing dusk— and, well, it seems a shame not to tell him so. After all these years, it’s only polite.

“You know,” he says, head swimming with the night and the drink, and most importantly that toehold of _politeness_ , “you look absolutely lovely in this light, my dear.”

“Ha!” Crowley scoffs. “ _Lovely._ Get ahold of yourself, angel.” 

The last is more pointed as Aziraphale stumbles over the corner of a concrete planter. Crowley frowns down at it, and the planter inches closer to the street. Aziraphale is momentarily wobbly about the knees, but he catches himself and continues, “Well, certainly fetching then.”

“No.”

“Handsome.”

_“No.”_

“Gorgeous,” he says stubbornly. “Surely you know that.”

 _“Not_ gorgeous, for Satan’s _sake_ ,” Crowley groans at the sky, his whole body contorting with the apparent pain of it, and now it’s turning fun.

“Positively breath-taking!” Aziraphale tells him gleefully.

“Not on your life!”

“Pretty as a picture—” 

“ _Pretty?_ Come off it— _”_

“ _—_ well then _stunning,_ ludicrously so, my own,” Aziraphale says, beaming as Crowley writhes in evident mental anguish.

“I’ll stun you alright, you— ickle pansy,” Crowley hisses fiercely. “Snookie-wookums. _Scrummy dumpling.”_

Aziraphale blinks. “Scrummy dump...? Oh my word. My word.”

For a split second, Crowley’s sneer turns anxious. “What? What is it?”

“My _word_. You are absolute rubbish at that,” Aziraphale says in growing delight. “Rubbish! It’s terribly sweet.”

“ _What?_ I am not _sweet,_ ” Crowley complains as they swing onto a new street. 

“You are _monstrously_ sweet, my darling,” Aziraphale informs him, giddy with the knowledge.

“Am not! And I’m not rubbish at it!”

“Call me something, then,” Aziraphale invites, spreading his arms wide and nearly taking a tumble down an inopportune stairway. Crowley grabs for him with an inarticulate growl. “Ah, thank you kindly.”

“You _congenital idiot—”_

“Something _nice_. Actually nice!”

 _“I will not,”_ Crowley says with such revulsion Aziraphale laughs outright, and a profusion of confused daffodils suddenly springs up in a window-well as they stumble past. “Stop that!”

“I shan’t stop until you admit it,” Aziraphale decides, smiling brightly into Crowley’s affronted face. “Dearheart. Sweetling. My one and only—”

Crowley makes his objections violently known (“Poopsie woopsie! _Baby cakesss!”_ ), but Aziraphale is firm in his stance, stalwart in his defense of Crowley’s stunning sweetness. _(“For the love of Belial! Not! Sweet!”)_

In the end, when the demon finally grumbles, “ _Fine_. Have it your way, angel,” hands in his pockets and scowling at the pavers, the street has gone quite dark— but perhaps if it were brighter, a keen eye might see red at the tips of his ears. Aziraphale rests a foot on the bookstore’s first step and smiles.

“I knew you’d come around,” he says.

"Yeah, well," Crowley mutters, and turns as if to go.

"My dearest, darling Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs, "if there is a congenital idiot here, it is not _me."_

And while Crowley is gaping at him— lovely especially when he is surprised— Aziraphale takes him firmly by the arm to pull him up the stairs and inside.


End file.
